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I remember the brownies. She gave them to me and I ate them and she thought it was funny when I lost my balance and started throwing up.
I remember waking up in a hospital bed, with my name, TALLULAH ROSE, pinned to my chest.
Who was that lady? I asked Gran later when she came to pick me up.
Your mama, Gran said. I remember those two words as if I heard them yesterday.
“I don’t like living in a car, Gran. ”
“Of course you don’t. ”
I sigh and put the T-shirt back in the box. Maybe this memoir thing is a bad idea. I back away from the box and leave the storage unit, remembering to lock it this time.
Fifteen
“You don’t need to walk me to all of my therapy appointments, you know,” Marah says to me on a bright and sunny Monday in late June as we walk up First Street toward the public market.
“I know. I want to,” I say, linking my arm through hers.
Here’s what I have learned in the two weeks she has lived with me: being responsible for a teenager is exhausting and terrifying. Every time she goes into the bathroom, I worry that she’s cutting herself. I look through the trash and count the Band-Aids in every box. I am afraid to let her out of my sight. I am constantly trying to do the right thing, but let’s face it, what I know about motherhood wouldn’t fill a Jell-O shot.
Now, in Dr. Bloom’s waiting room, I open up my laptop and stare at the blank blue screen. I have to get started on this thing, make some real progress. I have to.
I know how these things go. I’ve read a hundred memoirs in my life. They always begin in the same way; with the backstory. I need to set the stage, so to speak, to paint a picture of my life before I came into it. Introduce the players and the place.
And there it is. The thing that stops me this time, just as it has each time before: I can’t write my story without knowing my own history. And my mother’s.
I know almost nothing about her, and I know even less about my father. My history is this blank, yawning void. No wonder I can’t write anything.
I have to talk to my mother.
At the thought, I open my purse and find the small orange container. I am down to my last Xanax. I swallow it without water and then, slowly, I pick up my cell phone and call my business manager.
“Frank,” I say when he answers. “This is Tully. Is my mother still cashing her monthly checks?”
“I’m glad you called. I’ve left some messages. We need to talk about your finances—”
“Yeah, sure. But now I need to know about my mom. Is she still cashing her check?”
He tells me to hold, and then comes back onto the line. “Yes. Every month. ”
“And where is she living these days?”
There is another pause. “She’s living in your house in Snohomish. Has been for a few years. We sent you notice. I think she moved in when your friend was sick. ”
“My mom’s living in the house on Firefly Lane?” Did I know that, really?
“Yes. And now, can we talk about—”
I hang up. Before I can really process this information, work through it, Marah is coming out of Dr. Bloom’s office.
That’s when I notice the goth kid is beside me again. His black hair is streaked in magenta and green and safety pins hang from his earlobes. I see a glimpse of the script tattoo on his throat. I think it says madness, but there’s more I can’t see.
At Marah’s entrance, he stands. Smiles. I don’t like the way he looks at my goddaughter.
I get to my feet and edge around the coffee table, sweeping in protectively beside Marah. I take her arm in mine and lead her out of the office. When I look back from the door, gothie is watching us.
“Dr. Bloom thinks I should get a job,” Marah says as the door closes behind us.
